


The Longest Night

by gogirl212



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure, Brotherhood, Caves, Darkness, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rescue Missions, light - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 06:41:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13405599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogirl212/pseuds/gogirl212
Summary: Wounded and on the run, the musketeers seek shelter in a dark place on the longest night of the year.  An entry for the Fete des Mousqetaires January competition with the theme "Light."





	The Longest Night

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is an entry to the January Fete des Mousquetaires competition with the theme "Light". Please read all the contest entries and vote for your favorites! There is a list of all of the stories on the Fete des Mousquetaires forum on ffn.
> 
> My thanks as always to Issai for her beta-reading skills. There are still plenty of mistakes that I take all the credit for.

“This way!” Aramis’s voice was little more than a whisper, but it pierced through the rustle of leaves and branches well enough to lead Porthos forward. There was nothing but the smallest sliver of moonlight to guide them through the thick forest and without Aramis’s sharp eyes at the lead they would truly have been stumbling blindly. Porthos stuck close on the heels of Athos, knowing if he could follow the swordsman’s path he was less likely to lose his footing. D’Artagnan, slung across Porthos’s shoulders like a sack of grain, could ill afford another injury.

“Are they following?” Athos asked over his shoulder.

“Hear nothin’,” Porthos said, his breath short as the extra weight of the unconscious Gascon taxed even his great strength.

“They followed the horses,” Athos said into the darkness.

“Maybe,” Aramis answered, “But even so, it will not be long until they catch them.” He too sounded winded, breathy. They were all tired, Athos the only one among them who did not show it. But then he never did. 

“We will be hard to track,” Athos countered, “We are deep in the forest, there is not enough light to see sign of our passing.”

“Unless they have dogs,” Porthos couldn’t help but smile at Aramis’s pessimistic comment. As expected, Athos took the bait.

“They do not have dogs,” Athos stated emphatically, “We did not see any dogs when we rescued D’Artagnan.”

“Does not mean they did not have them,” Aramis whispered back, “Just that they were perhaps not very good dogs.”

“There were no dogs, Aramis,” Athos repeated. “Keep moving,” he added although Porthos hadn’t been aware Aramis had stopped. They continued on.

“The dogs could have been sleeping,” Aramis broke the silence. 

“Aramis,” Athos hissed in warning, although it was not enough to squelch the snicker that came from the darkness up ahead. 

Porthos chuckled to himself then gave a slight shift to D’Artagnan’s limp body. His muscles were cramping under the weight of the young musketeer. For his part, D’Artagnan did not even sigh at the movement. He had been unconscious when they found him and likely still was.

A muffled “Ow!” came from ahead and then Porthos bumped into Athos who had suddenly stopped moving. Athos had a steadying hand to Porthos’s chest even as he called out to the marksman.

“I’m alright,” the whisper came back, “There is a low branch here. You will have to pass D’Artagnan underneath.” Porthos stopped and Athos caught D’Artagnan by the shoulders as Porthos let him roll gently off his back. Athos got his arms under the Gascon’s while Porthos picked up his feet. Athos stepped cautiously backward and Porthos marveled at the trust he placed in Aramis to not let him fall. He could not see it, but he knew that Athos was relying completely on the marksman to guide him.

“Duck here,” he heard and then Porthos had to bend low as the Gascon’s body got closer to the ground. He was beside Aramis suddenly, the night so dark he had first thought the marksman to be part of the forest.

“Give me his legs,” Aramis whispered, “You will nearly have to crawl to get underneath.” Porthos grunted a yes and carefully let Aramis take his place. The marksman moved forward slowly and then Porthos did have to get to his hands and knees to get below the thick trunk. He crawled forward a few paces to collide softly into Aramis’s shoulder. The marksman was kneeling on the ground, catching his breath. Porthos could just make out Athos kneeling behind D’Artagnan, the young man held to his chest protectively.

“We’re restin’ here?” Porthos said doubtfully, but he had to admit he was grateful for the relief of the Gascon’s weight from his back.

“We all need a minute,” Aramis answered but Porthos thought it was Aramis who perhaps needed it most. It was too dark to see his features clearly, but Porthos knew the tension in the marksman’s voice would be accompanied by lines of pain across his brow.

“How’s the arm?” Porthos reached to where he had tied his bandana around the marksman’s upper arm, happy to find the makeshift bandage still in place.

“Hurts,” Aramis panted, “But no worse than before.”

“It will get worse,” Athos intoned gravely, “As will D’Artagnan if we don’t find a place to shelter soon. We can’t outrun them, even with the night and the forest on our side.”

“We should keep moving,” Porthos said, starting to stand.

“No, wait,” Aramis laid a hand on his arm and Porthos stilled, “Let me scout ahead. I can move faster if I am not worried about you dropping D’Artagnan.” 

Porthos was about to protest but Athos interjected, “Go.” Aramis nodded and rose quietly, pausing to pull one of his pistols from his belt and hand it Athos. Athos took it and called softly after the marksman, “Watch yourself.”

“When do I not?” came the hushed reply as Aramis disappeared into the shadows of the forest.

They sat in silence waiting for Aramis to return. Athos had lowered himself to sit on the ground, the Gascon still leaning against his chest, but now one hand held Aramis’s pistol at the ready. Porthos faced the direction they had come, main gauche in his hand, sword drawn and laying beside them. He peered into the blackness for any sign they were being pursued while the cold of the ground seeped into his body and his teeth began to chatter in the chill of the air. He was wrapped in his deep blue musketeer cloak and yet the wintery night bit into his bones. They were lucky it was not snowing this late in December for then there would have been no chance of hiding their tracks. The weak light of the thin crescent moon would have long given them away had it been reflected by a snowy white forest.

They waited.

“It’s been too long,” Porthos finally broke the silence. He picked up his sword and shifted to face Athos, “I’m going after him.”

“Wait,” Athos said quietly, “If we leave here, we must go together. I don’t want to move D’Artagnan again until we have to.” Porthos heard worry in Athos’s voice. He stooped down and pulled off his glove, laying his hand on D’Artagnan’s brow. The young musketeer was feverish.

“He should have been back,” Porthos said even though he knew Athos was right. D’Artagnan’s condition was worsening. Still, staying here would do nothing toward helping him. Porthos was about to raise that point when a branch cracked nearby. Athos raised the pistol, and Porthos shifted to a fighter’s stance, crouched but prepared to move with sword and dagger at the ready. There was a low whistle and both musketeers relaxed before Aramis appeared a moment later at their side. He knelt heavily on the ground, catching his breath, palms pressed to his thighs.

“There’s a place,” he said between breaths, “It’s not far and they are not likely to follow even if they find our trail.”

“Where?” Athos said, as he handed the pistol back to Aramis and shifted his hold on D’Artagnan. Porthos followed suit, sheathing his weapons and moving closer as he prepared to take up the Gascon once again.

“We are close to a break in the forest and at the other side of a field is a hidden cairn. We can shelter there,” Aramis said.

“A cairn?” Athos asked, “As in a tomb?”

In the darkness Aramis nodded. “It is an old druid site. The opening is well hidden. The passage appeared blocked, but I found it not difficult to move the debris. There is a path to the center,” Aramis paused looking up at Porthos, “It will be a tight fit, mon ami.”

“I don’t think I like this,” Porthos said gravely.

“We have little choice,” Athos said, “We need shelter now. And I think our luck in these woods is about to run out.” Athos nodded over Porthos’s shoulder and he turned to look where the swordsman was indicating. In the distance from the direction they had come Porthos could see the flicker of torch light through the trees.

“They’ve found us,” Aramis breathed, pulling back the hammer on his pistol.

“No, not yet,” Athos said, “They are spread out, searching for trail sign which will be hard to find in the darkness. If we can secure a place to hide, we might yet evade them.”  
“Give him ‘ere,” Porthos said, reaching for D’Artagnan. With a boost from Athos, Porthos slung the Gascon across his shoulders once more and pushed his exhausted body to rise. He was tired, but he was far from spent. Athos stood and reached down to give Aramis a hand up. The marksman was still breathing too heavily, a sign the wound was troubling him but from pain or blood loss Porthos could not tell. Athos sensed it too and without comment slung Aramis’s arm over his shoulder. That the marksman did not protest the help was not a good sign. Athos kept his sword drawn as he and Aramis lead the way toward what Porthos hoped would be their salvation.

 

The border of the forest was not far and Porthos was surprised when they broke from the edge of the dense woods into open space. It was disorienting to be able to see more than a pace in front of him after the hour they had spent in the close and claustrophobic woods. The clearing was a long track that seemed to slice through the woods. Porthos could just make out the density of the continuing forest on the other side. The clearing stretched left to right as far as he could see and it was clearly not the work of nature. Men had cut this swath through the trees although for what purpose Porthos could not fathom. This was an unlikely place to farm and within the clearing itself shadowy misshapen forms seemed to rise from the ground. Porthos shivered. 

“We’ll need to cross the field,” Aramis whispered, “The cairn is on the other side.”

“I don’t like being in the open,” Porthos answered, wishing he could at least draw his knife. But it was impractical as long as he had the Gascon over his shoulders.

“They are far enough behind us still,” Athos reassured, “And will be night blind because of the torches. They cannot see as far ahead as we can.”

“Careful,” Aramis cautioned, “the ground is rough. Though its frozen so we won’t leave tracks.” The marksman slipped from Athos’s hold and moved forward. Athos gave Porthos a nod and the fighter followed behind, with Athos bringing up the rear.

As he followed Aramis, a large amorphous form solidified itself from within the shadows in front of Porthos. He instinctively put out a hand and encountered the cold hard surface of a boulder. It was nearly the size of him and as he hugged the rock he realized the shapes he saw around him were all boulders, placed in neat rows across the strange field. 

“Come on,” Aramis whispered from the other side of the rock and then he could just make out the marksman as he slipped across the open terrain and lost himself again in the shadow of the next rock. Unnatural as the entire field seemed to be, Porthos knew he didn’t have time to think about it and followed Aramis, grateful for the cover the rocks would provide should the men searching for them come upon the clearing.

They made their way past five rows of stones and then a tug on his arm from Aramis led him to toward the edge of the forest. As Porthos got closer a small hill rose up before him, unusual in that the rest of the terrain was fairly flat. He followed Aramis toward the hill and the marksman scrambled up a few paces and then disappeared behind some brush. With a glance to make sure Athos was behind him, Porthos followed.

He struggled the few paces up the hill carefully so as not to lose his footing and take himself and D’Artagnan down in a heap. He discovered Aramis in a natural depression concealed by the bushes and trees growing around it. As he maneuvered down next to the marksman his could just make out a blackness behind him. This must be the entrance to the cairn.

“I’m not going in there,” Porthos grunted as he lowered D’Artagnan off his back, Aramis reaching to grab the Gascon’s shoulders and ease him to the ground.

“It will be fine, it’s a short passage and then opens up to a wide chamber,” Aramis said as his hands fussed with the makeshift bandage they had tied over D’Artagnan’s head, “There’s enough room for you to stand.”

“Not going in a dark hole,” Porthos said emphatically.

“Take the rear,” Athos said brushing past him and completely ignoring Porthos’s statement, “Roll some of the rocks at the entrance to cover our passage.” Then the swordsman was scooping up D’Artagnan and placing the boy’s arms around his neck while Aramis helped him stand, the Gascon draped over Athos’s back like a cape. 

Porthos continued to grumble as Aramis made his way into the cave, Athos following close behind. Porthos stood alone in frustration. “Idiots,” the big man cursed, but then he crouched low to duck into the entrance having really no choice but to follow his comrades.

Two steps into the narrow passage and Porthos redefined darkness. He carefully maneuvered himself in the close quarters to turn toward the entrance. The bright opening was clearly visible in what he knew to be the barest sliver of moonlight. Where his eyes had fought in the forest to find enough light to identify shapes from shadows, in the cave there was only inky blackness – a sameness to it all that was terrifying. There was no way he could move forward in that. He was about to say that when someone struck flint, a small flash illuminating the walls around them for an instant. It died away to be replaced by a low orange glow.

“Hurry,” Aramis’s hushed voice seemed loud in the quiet of the passage, “This match cord will not last long.”

Porthos turned his head to see a length of burning rope impaled on Aramis’s main gauche. It was designed to smolder, not burn, and would only give them a scant few minutes of low, ruddy light. Still, it was enough for Porthos and he reached to roll two smaller boulders from the cave opening into the pathway and then turned carefully again to follow the others into the cairn. 

It was tight and difficult. Several times he had to help Athos to reposition D’Artagnan to get them all through the passage. At one point they passed the unconscious man between them like a rag doll. Porthos had to open his doublet to squeeze past one section, feeling his shirt tear and his skin scrape on the protruding rocks. Just when it seemed unbearable Porthos pushed through into nothing, almost falling into Athos a step ahead of him.

Porthos breathed a sigh of relief just as the light from the match cord blinked out of existence. 

None of them moved as they were plunged into total darkness. Porthos felt as if he was under a blanket, the walls and ceiling suddenly close and overbearing even though he knew he was standing in an open cavern. His heart thumped wildly in his chest. He had never been particularly afraid of the dark but there was something about this place, the strange field they had crossed, the close and twisting passageway that unnerved him in a way he had not felt since he was a child. He focused on breathing. 

“It’s clear here,” Aramis’s hushed voice came from below him and Porthos realized the marksman was on the ground, “Get D’Artagnan settled.” Porthos felt Athos shift beside him and he reached out a hand, encountering D’Artagnan’s waist.

“I’ve got him,” he whispered to Athos. Porthos put a hand to D’Artagnan’s neck and back and held him while Athos shifted the lad’s arms off of his shoulders. He took the Gascon’s weight as he slipped backwards and then felt Athos grab the boy’s leg. Aramis’s hand on his knee let Porthos know where the marksman was and the two of them crouched down, stretching D’Artagnan gently to the ground with Aramis’s sure hands guiding them. Athos shifted, his shoulder grazing against Porthos as he kneeled beside him. Porthos was ashamed at the stirring of relief and comfort the swordsman’s presence gave him in the empty blackness.

“Is there another way out?” Porthos said, hoping his discomfort did not carry into his voice, “I should post watch.”

“No other entrance,” Aramis said, “And they would not come here even if they knew to find it.”

“You know this how?” Athos seemed curious more than alarmed. It still sometimes surprised Porthos the blind faith their taciturn Lieutenant placed in them when he had no trust for anyone else.

“It’s a Druid site. It’s considered cursed,” Aramis was moving in the darkness, probably trying to rouse D’Artagnan. Porthos found his own hand on the Gascon’s arm, squeezing lightly to provide some comfort, although to himself or D’Artagnan he was not sure. Porthos shook his head and grunted to himself. He was a musketeer and a child of the Court – how could he be afraid of the dark? He never had been before. Perhaps the damned cave was cursed.

“We need light,” Aramis said, his voice soft and close. “I’ve only the one piece of match cord left and if we need to fight . . .” Aramis did not need to finish the sentence. His pistols were essential to their survival. But treating D’Artagnan’s wounds might be essential to his.

“Oi! I’m an idiot,” Porthos’s exclamation came out louder than he intended. He felt around for his munitions bag and slipped the top open. He found Aramis’s hand still on his leg and took his wrist, turning the man’s palm upward and dropping his find into the marksman open hand, “Forgot a about that.” He felt Aramis’s hand close over the object.

“You have a candle,” Aramis said in disbelief, “and you forgot?” Porthos didn’t need any light to know that Athos was giving him one of his trademark glares and Aramis had to look like he was about to burst out laughing. He was suddenly grateful for the darkness.

Aramis struck flint and the wick caught and sputtered to life. It was the stub of a candle really, about the length of Porthos’s thumb, but the presence of the small flame changed everything. It would not last long, but it would be enough to tend their wounds.

“How is it you have that,” Athos wasn’t going to let the miracle of the candle go.

“I a . . . I pick things up,” Porthos said sheepishly, “Things that might come in handy.” Athos shot up a brow, clearly wanting to know more. Porthos didn’t generally keep things from his friends and he hadn’t intentionally hidden this, but neither had he been quick to tell them about this habit. He certainly didn’t want to explain it all now.

“You don’t happen have a bottle of wine in there that you forgot too?” Aramis whispered. He had taken the bandage off of D’Artagnan’s head and the wound looked raw in the flickering candlelight.

“Here,” Athos said, fishing into his doublet.

“You have wine?” Porthos was stunned. Athos shot him a glare and then produced a flask, dented and dull. Aramis took the flask from Athos with a small smile of thanks. It faded though as he turned back to D’Artagnan. 

“He has been ill-used,” Aramis said, his quiet voice dark. Porthos felt it too, the anger that swelled thinking of D’Artagnan as captive to ruthless men for two days. Running from them instead of cutting them down had galled them all. But they were outnumbered and D’Artagnan helpless without them. Retreat had been the only option.

“It looks like they beat him — more than once,” Aramis said a hand placed lightly on the Gascon’s chest. He had peeled back the boy’s filthy, bloodied shirt to reveal his torso mottled with yellow and black bruising and wrapped in strips of linen. The bandages signaled bruised or cracked ribs. Had the ribs been broken, D’Artagnan would have likely died by now from one piercing a lung given how Porthos had been forced to carry him. 

“Someone wrapped these ribs badly – too loosely to really do much good. But at least he was shown some mercy,” Aramis shifted his hand to lay on D’Artagnan’s head, “The blood on his shirt is from the head wound. He was not lashed,” Aramis said, looking up to Athos’s steely gaze. They all dreaded that, but even more so for D’Artagnan who had not yet been forced to suffer that aspect of military punishment or captivity. The boy’s face had a dark bruise on his jaw and swelling and bruising around his left eye. 

“Cleaning this won’t be pleasant,” Aramis said, brushing D’Artagnan’s hair lightly away from the gash that still sluggishly oozed blood. “If that doesn’t rouse him, though . . . Well, it would be a sign of a more grievous injury.” Aramis looked up at them, eyes unreadable in the flickering candlelight but they didn’t need to see to know what he was feeling, what they all felt. Porthos gave the marksman a nod and Athos place a hand on Aramis’s shoulder. Whatever happened, it was not Aramis’s burden. At least they tried to tell him that.

“Hold him,” Aramis said turning his gaze away and unstopping the flask. Porthos gently crossed D’Artagnan’s arms over his chest and secured them at the wrists with one of his big hands. He carefully got his knees around D’Artagnan’s head so the boy couldn’t roll away and put his other hand on his shoulder, as much for comfort as for restraint. Wary of the condition of the boy’s ribs, Aramis chose to kneel beside him rather than straddle him so Athos instead carefully crossed D’Artagnan’s legs then put a hand to his ankles and thigh. They had done this enough times to know what to expect.

Aramis put a hand to D’Artagnan’s head and used his thumb and forefinger to gently open the gash then without hesitation, carefully poured the alcohol along the open cut. The reaction was instantaneous. D’Artagnan’s eyes snapped open and he attempted to arch his back trying to get away from the burn of the alcohol. Porthos felt him try to thrash his arms and gripped him harder even as his knees pressed lightly together to keep D’Artagnan’s head still. The Gascon’s eyes were wild and he let out an anguished wail only to have Aramis ruthlessly clamp a hand over his mouth even as he poured another measure of spirits over the wound. While out of sight their hiding place could be easily revealed if D’Artagnan’s screams were overheard.

It was over quickly enough but the ordeal left D’Artagnan panting, tears tracking from his eyes and his body tense and trembling. 

“Sshhh, ssshh,” Porthos soothed, gently squeezing D’Artagnan’s shoulder, “It’s done now.” 

Aramis had procured a cloth from his satchel and was carefully blotting at the cut while also making small sounds of comfort. Porthos raised his eyes to Athos to find the swordsman had released his grip on D’Artagnan’s legs and sat back, one hand lingering on the young swordsman’s knee. They exchanged a glance, uncomfortable at D’Artagnan’s pain but relieved he had been pulled from his stupor. 

“Athos, bring the candle closer,” soft spoken as Aramis was, Porthos heard the worry in his voice. Athos did as he was asked, shifting to the other side of the Gascon and holding the candle above his head. With the brighter light Porthos could see the streaks of dirt and more bruising rising on D’Artagnan’s face. The young musketeer whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut at the light but did not resist when Aramis gently turned his head to get a better look at the cut.

“This needs stitching,” Aramis said with a look to Athos. Athos nodded and patted Porthos on the arm. Porthos let out a grateful exhale and relinquished his place to Athos. 

“Thank you,” Porthos said gruffly. They knew his distaste for needles and stitching well enough to not have to ask, but Porthos was always grateful to be relieved of this duty. 

“He’s fevered,” Athos said as he settled his hand on the lad’s head.

“I don’t think it’s the wound,” Aramis said, “It’s been a hard two days. D’Artagnan?” Aramis gently cupped the boy’s cheek, “Are you with us?” The young swordsman hummed and gave a small nod of his head, only to wince and squeeze his eyes tightly. “I’d avoid moving your head if I were you,” Aramis said with a smile in his voice. Aramis shifted his hand to lay gently beside the gash on his head. “I’m going to stitch this.” D’Artagnan hummed again and Aramis smiled down at him. Porthos caught the look that passed between Athos and Aramis and then Athos had D’Artagnan’s head cradled between his knees as he had done, but this time he put one hand to the boy’s head and another under his chin. Suturing was uncomfortable and keeping still was hard.

“Where . . ?” D’Artagnan trailed off in a rough cough.

“Hiding in a cairn,” Aramis said as he threaded the needle, “So you need to be quiet.”

“I’ll wake the dead?” D’Artagnan croaked, confusion lacing his voice.

“I’m not worried about the dead,”Aramis said breezily, “It’s the two dozen men chasing us that concern me.” D’Artagnan tried to speak again, but his words were caught in his throat as soon as Aramis pierced his skin with the needle. Athos held up the flask but Aramis shook his head. They would need that alcohol if the wound took a turn.

“He could use some water,” Aramis said softly looking up a moment at Porthos, “There is a spring here if you can wet a cloth.”

“I have a cup,” Porthos said, reaching for the small tin cup that he had tied by his tinder box.

“You are full of useful things today,” Aramis said lightly, the teasing evident. Porthos ignored him.

He gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the lower light as he shifted away from where they had lain out D’Artagnan. As the shapes resolved around him, he found the space large enough that they could comfortably lie down four abreast if they wanted. The walls of the cavern were pale rock that faintly glowed under the candle light. Toward the back was a shallow rock that had a natural bowl to it. To the left of that was another flat slab of rock and to the right, something glistened darkly. That must be the water Aramis had been talking about. Porthos carefully knelt, but there was surprisingly little debris in the cave. He dipped the cup into the water finding it much warmer than he expected for a cold December night. In fact, the cave itself was not damp or chill but surprisingly comfortable. He made his way back to where Aramis was placing the last of the sutures. They were all grateful for the marksman’s speed in stitching as well as his skill.

He handed the cup to Athos and as soon as Aramis tied off the last suture, the swordsman gently raised D’Artagnan’s head and let some of the water trickle past his parched lips. The look of relief and pleasure on D’Artagnan’s face brought a smile to Porthos. Their hard-headed Gascon was going to be just fine. Porthos was sure of it.

“How long?” D’Artagnan asked, reaching his hand to the cup. Despite D’Artagnan’s grip Athos did not release it as the young swordsman took another drink.

“Two days,” Athos said, “They covered their tracks well.”

“ ’m sorry,” D’Artagnan said weakly, “Couldn’ lose ‘em.”

“It’s hardly your fault,” Aramis chided as he laid two clean linen strips over D’Artagnan’s chest in preparation for bandaging his head again. “We should never have been forced to split up to begin with.” The bitterness in the marksman voice was clear. He had resented the mission from the beginning.

“Another of the Cardinal’s brilliant plans,” Porthos grumbled, taking up the cup and moving back to the spring to refill it.

“So much for having decoys though,” Aramis said as he helped to shift D’Artagnan into a more upright position, leaning on Athos’s chest. The boy couldn’t help but moan softly in protest at the movement and as Porthos returned with the water he smiled at the gentle hold Athos had as he held the boy close. This one was melting even Athos’s cold heart.

“You escaped,” D’Artagnan’s statement held a tone of self-recrimination.

“Actually no,” Athos said, helping D’Artagnan to drink another cup of water, “As none of us were set upon.” The three older musketeers exchanged a look. What were the odds that the one man carrying the promissory note was the only one of them who was pursued?

“We were set up,” Porthos said through tight lips. “The bastards knew D’Artagnan had the note all along.”

“And we were off on our own wild goose chase,” Aramis said as he wound the bandage around D’Artagnan’s head, “Leaving you all but defenseless.” Aramis was angry. Porthos knew by the stillness in his voice.

“The Cardinal was against the loan to begin with,” Athos said, “Treville told me a fortnight ago that they had argued. But Louis insisted.”

“So sending D’Artagnan off to be killed so that the note would never be returned was his answer,” Aramis hissed and rocked back on his heels, fuming. Porthos came to stand behind him and as Aramis leaned against his legs, the fine tremors in his body revealing the depths of his anger.

“Didn’t work,” D’Artagnan muttered sleepily as Athos took away the empty cup.

“Well you are not dead,” Aramis shivered, “So technically, yes, it didn’t work.”

“The note . . . “ D’Artagnan’s lids were drooping and he placed a hand on his torso where his ribs were obviously paining him.

“It’s alright,” Athos soothed.

“No . . . The note,” D’Artagnan said more urgently forcing his eyes open and catching Porthos’s gaze. Athos started to shush him but Porthos leaned down, placing a hand over D’Artagnan’s.

“What happened to the note?” Porthos asked. D’Artagnan gave a thin smile and beneath Porthos’s hand he felt D’Artagnan tap his torso before the Gascon’s eyes flickered closed again.. Porthos let out a chuckle, “Whelp tucked it in the bandages.”

Athos’s eyes shot up and Aramis immediately brushed away their hands to start loosening the binding around D’Artagnan’s ribs. A moment later he slipped a thin packet of papers out from between the wrappings.

“That was clever,” Aramis said in admiration as he handed the papers to Athos. D’Artagnan’s lips curled in a smile. He was exhausted but not asleep. “How did you manage it?”

“Bound it . . . myself,” D’Artagnan said between deep breaths. “Ignored it . . .when they searched me.”

“Well done,” Athos praised. “Now get some rest. It’s a long night ahead of us yet.”

They repositioned D’Artagnan on the ground, Athos stripping off his cloak to first to put it under the young musketeer while Aramis wrapped his own cloak around D’Artagnan’s shoulders. It would be better if they could build a fire, but if they all stayed close, D’Artagnan should be warm enough. It was much warmer in the cairn then outside, especially with no wind to deal with.

Aramis sat back heavily, brushing a hand over his face as Athos straightened the cloak over D’Artagnan. Porthos went to retrieve more water, this time for his comrades. They were all beyond weary but with the imminent concerns of sheltering from their pursuers and tending to their young comrade assuaged, whatever willpower had kept them going was starting to fade. Porthos squatted next to Aramis and offered the cup but he waved a hand and indicated Athos should take it first.

“We should put out the candle,” exhaustion colored Aramis’s words, “In c..case we need to re-dress D’Artagnan’s wounds. It won’t last m..much longer,” the marksman’s teeth were chattering. Porthos caught Athos’s questioning eyes over the brim of the cup.

“You alright?” He asked, putting a hand to Aramis’s back. The marksman’s shivering had increased.

“Just c..cold,” Aramis answered as he pulled his left arm around his torso and reached for the cup of water with his right.

“It’s not that cold, Aramis,” Porthos said gently. Aramis narrowed his eyes in an accusatory glance, obviously he didn’t agree with Porthos.

Athos picked up the candle and shifted to his knees, kneeling beside Aramis and looking closely at his shoulder. “Your arm,” he said flatly, “That’s probably hurting.” Porthos wanted to kick himself for forgetting about the gunshot wound.

“Not that b..bad,” Aramis said through clenched teeth.

“That’s surprising,” Athos was deadly calm as his fingers untwisted the bandanna from around Aramis’s arm. He held it up before Aramis and Porthos, the makeshift bandage was soaked through with blood.

“Oh bloody hell,” Porthos said, moving to quickly but gently push Aramis toward Athos so that he could get the marksman’s doublet undone. “You still have to be told when to say something.”

“It d..din’t hurt,” Aramis said as he leaned heavily against Athos, “I f..f…forgot.”

“He forgot,” Porthos gave a tug to Aramis’s sleeve and the marksman winced. He quickly checked his temper, it would not do to further hurt his friend just because he was annoyed. And in all honesty, they were all used to ignoring pain and tiredness to get the job done. It was only after the heat of the battle that these things would make themselves known. 

Porthos got the sleeve off of Aramis’s arm and then Athos unlaced Aramis’s shirt and pulled the neck wide so he could see the arm. 

“Did it go t-through?” Aramis let his head rest against Athos’s shoulder.

“No,” Athos said, then shifted his grip to feel above Aramis’s bicep. The marksman winced as Athos pressed on his arm. “I can feel the ball. I don’t think it’s that deep.”

“Needs out,” Aramis said.

“Such insight,” Porthos muttered.

“Get his shirt off,” Athos was perfunctory in his words but careful in his actions as he shifted Aramis to lean forward so Porthos could peel off the rest of his doublet and ease the shirt over his head. Exchanging a look to be sure Porthos had a good grip, Athos pulled his main gauche and wiped the blade, then poured some of the spirits on it from the flask before placing the tip in the candle flame. Aramis had taught them this long ago and they no longer argued the value of it.

Aramis was shivering deeply and while the low light was deceptive, he seemed pale, his eyes dark hollowed pits in shadowy candle light. Porthos raised his eyes and Athos’s troubled stare confirmed it. This was battle sickness. It sometimes befell soldiers after combat injuries. The shivering was a sign. A battle surgeon in La Rochelle had told them it had to do with loss of blood and imbalance in the humors and had given Athos a rich beef broth when it happened to him. Not always having broth on hand, they had learned to make due with wine or water, to keep them warm, and to keep them talking. That last was perhaps their own fears but the worst they could imagine was to let a brother slip away from them into a stupor they would never wake from.

“Aramis,” Athos said as he warmed the blade, “I’m going to take the ball out. But we can’t risk a fire to cauterize and I don’t think it can be stitched.” 

Aramis shifted his right hand to his shoulder. He screwed his face up with the pain of poking at his own wound. “Soak a b..bandage. Alcohol. P..put it in the w..wound,” Aramis stuttered into Porthos’s chest, “B..bind it. T…tight.”

Athos pulled the blade from the candle and shifted into position at Aramis’s side. He fished in Aramis’s bag and pulled out a thick strip of leather decorated with a collection random indentations and passed it to Porthos.

“Here,” Porthos said, slipping it between Aramis’s teeth. He looked up to Porthos in confusion born of the blood loss. “Just bite that, alright?” Porthos was insistent but kind, “You’ll thank me later.” Porthos shifted his grip, pressing the man to his chest while holding steadily to his left arm above and below the wound. 

Athos nodded over Aramis’s head, he was ready.

“Aramis,” Porthos held tightly, “This is going to hurt.” The marksman grunted and he felt him nod against his chest. Athos felt for the ball on the outside of Aramis’s arm and pushed with his thumb against it while slipping the heated blade into the open wound. The marksman tensed in Porthos’s arms and he felt a fist slam into his chest but befuddled as he was Aramis didn’t make a sound. Athos was quick as the ball was not deep and with a sick squelching sound it popped free from the flesh. Aramis relaxed, panting heavily.

“There’s a lot of blood,” Athos said as he soaked one of the bandages in alcohol. Aramis pushed up from Porthos’s hold and twisted to look at the arm.

“You m..made the h..hole b..bigger,” he said in dismay. 

“Shut up,” Porthos said although his voice was full of affection, “Cleaning that is going hurt as much as getting the ball out so put that back in your mouth.” Aramis gave him a look of betrayal but stuffed the bit of leather back between his teeth. No sooner had he done it then Athos was pouring the last of the spirits over the open would. Aramis grunted in pain and lowered his head, pressing into Porthos’s shoulder while he grabbed a handful of the big man’s shirt. 

Satisfied it was a clean as it could be, Athos pushed the alcohol soaked bandage into the open wound then tightly wrapped it in place with another bandage around Aramis’s arm. Dipping their last cloth in the cup of water he tipped the marksman’s head back to gently wipe his face. That seemed to rouse Aramis somewhat and his eyes fluttered open and the leather fell from his slack jaw.

“Mmm..thank you,” Aramis’s words slurred slightly.

“Thank me by not getting shot again,” the sarcasm of Athos’s words was undermined by the fondness in his voice. Porthos wrestled Aramis back into his shirt and then draped the doublet over his shoulders. He took off his own cloak and put that around the shivering marksman as Athos filled both the cup and the now empty flask with water. Returning to Aramis’s side, they propped him up between them, happy to see he was sitting mostly on his own as he huddled under Porthos’s cloak.

“Drink this,” Athos said, passing him the cup. Aramis didn’t protest, grateful for the water but they could hear his teeth clatter on the rim of the cup. When that was finished he took the flask next before passing it to Porthos to finish off. The water had a tang of minerals to it but seemed clear and smelled fresh. They would have been in dire trouble without it.

Athos returned to the spring to get more water. He passed the cup and the flask to Porthos before kneeling beside D’Artagnan to pull the cloak up further over his shoulders. Sleep was the best thing for the young swordsman, but they would rouse him in a few hours so that the head wound not pull him to a place from which he could not awake. Athos returned to his place beside Aramis. The three of them had their back to the cave wall with D’Artagnan laying beside Athos, farthest from the entrance to the cairn.

Athos carefully put the candle and Aramis’s flint in front of him. Next he laid his main gauche above them then slipped his sword from its hanger and placed that on the ground near his right hand. He leaned back against the wall of the cave, and put a hand to Aramis’s shoulder, gently encouraging the marksman to do the same.

“Ready?” Athos asked him. Porthos couldn’t remember what he should be ready for until Athos blew out the candle. His stomach dropped as he felt the devastating darkness consume him once again.

“Oi,” Porthos breathed. Porthos closed his eyes. It was better that than to feel them open but know he could not see. He instinctively shifted closer to Aramis, hoping as much to abate the marksman’s shivering as to ease his own discomfort. He knew they should rest but the fear that gripped him was rising. They should not have sheltered in a place of the dead.

“Aramis,” Athos whispered into the oppressive darkness, “How did you know about this place?” Porthos knew they would keep Aramis awake and talking until the unnatural shivering abated. Porthos did not mind the conversation either as he knew his rising trepidation would allow him no rest this night. Aramis sighed and shifted, Porthos thought he might be leaning against Athos.

“I s..soldiered here in ’22,” Aramis spoke quietly but his soft baritone voice filled the emptiness of the carin. “Was stationed in Quiberon but we were dis…dispatched all over Brittany looking for signs of an English incursion.”

“The English did not invade in 22,” Athos said drily.

“J..just the idea of more Huguenots p..pouring into France was enough for the Cardinal to station our regiment here for nearly half the year,” Aramis explained. Porthos felt the marksman give a violent shudder, “At least it was Sp..spring,” he added wistfully, “It’s quite temperate here then.”

“And this cave?” Porthos prodded.

“Ah, well, it’s not really a cave at all,” Aramis said, “It was built by the druids. They also put the stones in the field – there are thousands of them.”

“Why?” Porthos asked.

“I could not say,” Aramis said and Porthos knew he was smiling, “Only I am grateful for the place, then and now.”

“You’ve sheltered here before,” it was a statement from Athos, not a question.

“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking,” Aramis answered, “I was shown this place by Elise Manet, a lovely young woman in the town of Carnac, the youngest daughter of the city magistrate. She was quite learned in the ways of the pagans and we . . .ehm, sheltered here on more than one occasion.”

“Sheltered from her father you mean?” Athos’s tone implied shelter meant something else altogether.

“Well. . .I will just say that in warmer weather it is pleasant enough. With a cloak on the ground and some wine it is a perfect spot for intimate discussions regarding the finer points of the Druid religions, a discussion that her pious father was sure to have objected to,” Aramis explained.

“Sometimes I think it’s a miracle that you survived your early days in the infantry long enough to become a musketeer,” Athos said flatly. Aramis chuckled softly.

“I must say a rendezvous at a cursed Druid cairn was one of my most effective acts of infiltration in this region,” Aramis shifted, stretching his legs out before him. Porthos thought he must be warming up. “The site is well hidden and unless the men chasing us have a local guide, they would not even know it was here. Even then, it is considered cursed and no one from the village would come here, particularly tonight.”

“Why tonight?” Porthos asked warily.

“It’s the night of the solstice, December 22,” Aramis explained, “The longest night of the winter and considered sacred by the pagans. Dark magic will rise here tonight,” Aramis’s voice was suddenly ominous.

“Oi, that’s it,” Porthos shifted and stood, putting a hand to the wall to steady himself in the darkness, “I’m standing watch at the entrance.”

“I am jesting,” Aramis’s hand was on his leg, “While it is true that the solstice is worshipped by the Druids, the curse I believe was fabricated by Elise herself. I am not the first um. . . scholar. . . she studied with,” Aramis paused and the hand on his leg gave a small squeeze. “It is not so bad once your eyes adjust. Although the last time I was here I just felt my way through the situation.” Porthos could hear Aramis’s impish smirk coming through in his words.

“Can’t see my hand in front of my face,” Porthos muttered, but he lowered himself to sit again beside Aramis. The marksman kept a hand on his shoulder but Porthos took little comfort from it.

“What, you cannot see this?” Aramis said, “Or this?” Porthos did not know what Aramis was doing in the darkness, but then a hand collided with his nose.

“Stop that,” Porthos hissed, not in the mood to be teased, “You know I can’t.”

“Porthos, have your eyes not adjusted to the darkness?” Athos asked, his tone serious and tinged with concern. “Are you night blind?” It would be dangerous for a musketeer to have no sight in darkness and quite a feat if Porthos had hidden it for this long.

“You know my eyes are fine,” Porthos shifted uncomfortably, “I just do not like this place, the blackness. It is unsettling.” Porthos hated to admit weakness, as they all did, but to be so childish as to say he had a sudden fear of the dark was more than he could allow to pass his lips.

Still, they must have understood because Aramis tightened his hand on Porthos’s shoulder. “I would never bring you to a dark place, mon ami,” Porthos heard the shift in his tone, “One so devoid of light there is no hope. Open your eyes.” Porthos did not know how Aramis knew that his eyes were closed, but suddenly he felt that the hardest thing in the world would be to raise his lids. 

“Porthos,” Athos rarely sounded this tender, “Trust us. Open your eyes. It is really quite surprising.”

Porthos felt his jaw clenching as a lump rose in his throat. Whatever Aramis had said about the curse being made up something here had stripped him of his strength. He had not felt this small and vulnerable since he had been a very young child, sitting beside his mother’s bedside in the broken down hovel they shared. They had no light but he could hear the soft sounds coming from her as she fought the fever with her last breath. Porthos had dozed off, and when he woke, there had been blackness like this and stillness. In the silence he knew his mother had died. A tear tracked down his cheek and he was grateful for a moment for the darkness to hide his shame at his weakness.

Porthos suddenly was angry at himself for his foolishness. Fear was not new to him, what was new was cowardice. He forced his eyes open and blinked against a darkness that he knew he could not prevail against. But Athos had asked for his trust and if he did not have faith of his own, he had faith in them. He realized he was breathing rapidly and worked to still his anxiety even as Aramis shifted against him, the marksman pressing himself companionably along Porthos’s side.

“Let me tell you about Elise,” Aramis was a warm presence, the cadence of his words comforting as he fell into one of his typical tales of romance, conquest, and danger. Even as a young man it seems Aramis was most interested in what he could not have. Porthos felt himself relaxing slightly and he leaned his head back against the wall listening to his friends talk and feeling the fear of the darkness begin to loosen its hold. Memories of his mother receded as it was impossible not to laugh at Aramis’s escapades with the magistrate’s daughter.

“Is there water,” Aramis asked, his voice now roughened by his long tale. Porthos heard Athos shifting and he assumed he was passing the marksman the cup. “I’ll wake D’Artagnan,” Aramis said, “He should drink more.”

“As should you,” Athos intoned with a hint of command.

“We’ll need more,” Aramis said, “Porthos?” 

Porthos recognized his name as a request to refill the cup. He reached out and took the tin cup from Aramis’s hand and only then realized, he could see! Not clearly enough to see the marksman’s features, but he could see the shape of his body, the hand with the cup stretched out in the darkness. He looked to the floor and could comfortably make out the shape of D’Artagnan bundled under their cloaks, Athos leaning over him and whispering something as he laid a hand on the Gascon’s brow. He glanced up and could just make out the wall of the cave on the other side and the arch of the ceiling stretching up into blackness.

“I’ll be damned,” Porthos muttered to himself, but in the quiet of cairn the words traveled to his companions.

“I take it your eyes have adjusted now,” Aramis said, no condemnation in his words.

“This place might not be cursed, but is it enchanted?” Porthos breathed as he stood, looking around the cairn with new born eyes.

“If we had a torch, you would see the walls are made of stacked slabs of granite,” Aramis explained, “White stone that reflects the moonlight, thin as it may be tonight, that comes in from an opening in the top. Pagans or not, the Druids were clever builders. It is much the same as the inside of the cathedral of Saint-Sulpice. Not magic, but ingenuity.”

Porthos could see well enough to take the few steps to the spring and refill the water cup. The more he looked the more he felt he could see. He returned and passed the water to Aramis, watching him and Athos fuss over the Gascon to get him to wake and drink. More shapes and lines emerged. Some details of Aramis’s uniform, the shine of Athos’s sword on the floor. He could see better here than he could during their escape in the forest. It was a marvel.

The settled down again, this time for Porthos it was with comfort and ease to sit beside his friends in the darkness. Aramis did not light the candle again as D’Artagnan seemed well and the bandages not seeping. The fever which held the Gascon was light and with rest they hoped it might ease by morning. Rest was what they all needed now, and Porthos was glad to take the first watch as the other two settled down beside him and D’Artagnan. 

The soft sounds of his sleeping companions reminded Porthos of a different memory, of him lying in the darkness beside his mother, the warmth from her body a shelter, the gentle rhythm of her breathing an anchor. He had so few memories of his mother and most were in darkness yet her presence had always been a kind of light to him in those moments. As he watched over his friends he truly could not find the fear he had held earlier. It was as if it had been obliterated with the coming of the light. Not just what he could see, but the light he could feel in his heart. Aramis had said he would never lead him into darkness and in the quiet space of the longest night Porthos truly believe it. There was no darkness that could not be made light by the presence of his brothers at his side.

-FIN-

**Author's Note:**

> Carnac is a real place in Brittany and there really are standing stones in the fields and many dolmens, cairns, and other evidence of neolithic people (and probably Druids too!). i don't think the Englis were really tromping around there in 1622, but it was a long disputed area and so it's not impossible either. There are several aspects of teh Arthurian legends, particularly those surrounding the search for the Holy Grail, that happen in Brittany. I've been inside neolithic passage tombs in Ireland and cairn I was describing was just a smaller version of what I saw. I've never been to Carnac, but now I really want to go!


End file.
